Being on the run for so long, I never thought I’d be wearing a five-thousand-dollar dress or shoes that cost twice that much. I’m not sure if the black dress is too formal for dinner. I’m out of my element. The straps to the halter top are made of rhinestones. Or at least I hope they’re rhinestones. The front dips lower than I’m comfortable with, but still tasteful.
The dress hangs in loose folds and has an impressive slit that doesn’t stop until it reaches mid-thigh. It’s mostly backless so I have to go without a bra, something I always needed to support my C-cup, but the built-in bra is surprisingly supportive.
I suppose you get what you pay for, and Dior knows how to take care of the ladies. I kick my toes out, admiring the strappy silver heels. I still need a pedicure.
Need.Want. It’s the one luxury I used to splurge on for Mama and me. Only on her birthday and Mother’s Day. I had a collection of nail polish back in my apartment, and we’d spend nights painting each other’s nails.
I’ll take a crappy paint job from Mama over a fancy pedicure any day of the week. I long to talk to her again. Tonight, I’ll ask Stone for more regular calls. No, I’ll demand them.
Nervous for so many reasons, I go to the bathroom one more time and do a quick hair and makeup check. I’ve never been good at doing hair. I am blessed with long, thick, dark locks that don’t require much attention.
My go-to is a ponytail or messy bun. Tonight, however, I wear it down. I even applied a thin line of eyeliner and a few brushes of mascara to my eyes. Nothing smokey or too obvious. I’m not dressing to impress Stone; I’m dressing the part.
Liar.
Stone may claim to be an honest man, but I’ve never pretended to be any such thing. Ironic. An innocent victim who has no problem lying matched with an honest crime lord. Mafia man? Drug dealer?
I have no idea what Stone does or how his family makes their fortune. Maybe it’s all honest money made through his vineyard. But he said he handed the business over to Elena two years ago. He must have income coming in through another source.
Do I really want to know? Maybe it’s better to be left in the dark. Although, that’s how Mama’s life was with Lorenzo, and that is not a life I want.
There is nothing left for me to do in my room, so I give myself one final pep talk and march out the door and down the stairs. Part of me hopes Stone is waiting at the bottom as I make my grand entrance like a scene out of Pretty Woman.
No one is around. The door to his office is open, so I check to see if he’s still working. Stone’s forehead rests in the palm of his hand as he stares down at his laptop. His other hand scrolls and types, then he moves both hands to his keyboard.
I know the moment he spots me. His fingers stop moving and he lifts his gaze, keeping his head tilted toward his computer. He stays like that for so long I think he’s still angry with me. I don’t see the vein, but I don’t see the eyebrow lift either.
He rubs his stubbly chin, a move I haven’t seen him do before, then closes his laptop, keeping his gaze locked on mine. I haven’t moved from the doorway as I wait for him to finish whatever he’s working on.
I don’t want to call attention to myself, so when he finally stands, I crack a joke. “I’m starving. I hope this place serves Parlatore Chianti. If not, want to take a bottle as a roadie?”
He rubs his chin again, stroking his short beard, which is more like a constant five o’clock shadow and it makes him look delicious. Maybe I’ll ask him to shave for the wedding. He’ll have less sex appeal and I’ll have an easier time controlling my inappropriate thoughts.
Stone stands and tugs lightly at his cuffs. He takes out his phone from the interior pocket of his suit coat and texts something, still without taking his eyes off me.
“If you’re more of a beer guy, I’m cool with that as well.” My American lingo and humor are my only shield. “Or we can wait and order drinks at the restaurant.”
“Marco is waiting.” He rounds his desk and takes my hand, placing it on the crook of his arm.
I hurry to keep up with him, even though my legs are just as long as his in these heels. Marco stands at the back of the limo holding the door open for us. Stone lifts my hand from his and helps me into the backseat with the grace of a gentleman.
He slides in next to me and closes the door, still not saying anything, and now not even looking at me. We ride in silence. I stare out the window, taking in the lush vineyard and the open Mediterranean Sea. I have no idea where in Italy his estate lies, or how long it will take to get to the restaurant, but with views like these I find it difficult to care.
Before I am ready, the limo stops, and Marco has Stone’s door open. I take his hand and survey my surroundings. We are on a dock where a handful of yachts are anchored. Stone places my hand on the crook of his arm again and guides me down a ramp toward the biggest yacht in the marina.
“Where are we going?”
“La Madia.”
“Why are we taking a boat?”
“Would you rather swim?” He leads me up another ramp and onto the yacht, then down into a luxurious cabin where a spread of wine, cheese, and crackers are laid out on a glass table.
“Is everything to your liking, sir?” A man dressed in black asks from the other end of the room.
Stone lifts his gaze to mine and gives a curt nod. The man leaves and a moment later the yacht starts to move. After a few beats, Stone moves to the bar and opens a bottle of wine. He pours two glasses, handing one to me.
“Sit.”